Goat Pie Read online

  Goat Pie

  by Alan MacDonald

  illustrations by Mark Beech

  For Jo, Tim, Joss, Louis and Ellis – A. M.

  To my good friend Brandon Buth – M. B.

  Collect all books in the

  Troll Trouble series

  Trolls Go Home!

  Trolls United!

  Trolls on Hols

  PRIDDLES: Roger, Jackie and Warren

  Description: ‘Pasty-faced peeples’

  Likes: Peace and quiet

  Dislikes: Trolls

  MR TROLL: Egbert / Eggy

  Description: Tall, dark and scaresome

  Likes: Roaring, tromping, hiding under bridges.

  MRS TROLL: Nora

  Description: Gorgeous (ask Mr Troll)

  Likes: Huggles and kisses, caves, the dark

  ULRIK TROLL

  Description: Big for his age

  Likes: Smells, singing, Rockball.

  GOAT

  Description: Strong-smelling, beardy beast

  Likes: Mountains, grass

  Dislikes: Being eaten

  Contents

  Love and Huggles

  A Tight Fit

  Grumpa

  Meet the Neighbours

  Saving Trollmas

  Night Raiders

  Hiding Rosemary

  Goat on the Loose

  On the Run

  Hairy Weakling

  Happy Trollmas!

  Footnote

  Love and Huggles

  Ulrik sat down at the table and cleaned out his ear with the end of his pencil. All week his mum had been reminding him to write a thank-you letter to his grumpa. He began in his big scrawly handwriting …

  Dear Grumpa,

  Thank you for my goatskin hat. It is uggsome! The flaps keep my earses warm.

  I wear it when I go to school and also in bed. Dad says it is a hunting hat so next time we go hunting I’m going to wear it.

  He sucked the end of his pencil, which tasted of earwax. It looked like the yellow bits of boiled eggs but had a different flavour. When would his dad actually take him on his first goat-hunting trip? he wondered. Since they had left the far blue mountains of Norway, Ulrik hadn’t seen many goats. There were none on Biddlesden High Street or in the park along the road where only the fat ducks bobbed on the lake. He turned back to his letter.

  We live in a nice cave here. It is called Number 10. It has got lots of rooms. I’ve got my own. I have done a mud picture on the walls and it is me and Mum and Dad and you outside our buggly old cave in the mountains.

  Mum says my roar is getting more scaresome. If you heard it, Grumpa, you would have to cover your earses. I do roaring and tromping practice with Dad every morning on the big hill in our back garden. Sometimes our next-door nibbler puts his head out the window and roars back at us, but I don’t think he’s very good at it yet.

  That’s all I can think of right now.

  Love and huggles

  Ulrik x

  PS (That means pssst! there’s more)

  What are you doing for Trollmas this year? Are you coming to stay?

  Ulrik folded up the letter and put it in an envelope – he could post it in the big red letter-hole on the way to school. That was what you did with letters. He wondered how his letter could travel all the way to the far blue mountains of Norway. It must be a long way for the post peeples to walk.

  After school Ulrik sat down to supper with his mum and dad. Mrs Troll placed three plates in front of them, looking pleased with herself.

  ‘What’s this, Mum?’ asked Ulrik, sniffing the two orange lumps on his plate.

  ‘Fish’s fingers,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘I thought we’d try something new.’

  ‘Fish don’t have fingers,’ said Ulrik.

  ‘Of course they do, my ugglesome. The fingers are the best bit.’

  Mr Troll wrinkled his snout in disgust. ‘I’m not eating fish!’

  ‘Try it, Eggy. It might be tastesome,’ said Mrs Troll.

  ‘Huh!’ grunted Mr Troll. He picked up a fish finger and examined it as if it was a nasty insect. Gingerly he bit off the end and chewed it for a moment.

  ‘Pleugh!’ A half-chewed fish finger landed on the table. Mrs Troll sighed and put it on her own plate. It was the same every time she brought home something new.

  ‘I don’t mind the fingers, Mum,’ said Ulrik.

  ‘Thank you, hairling. So tomorrow is your last day at school?’

  ‘Yes, not long to Trollmas now,’ said Ulrik, his eyes shining. ‘What are we having for dinner on Trollmas Day?’

  ‘Goat pie,’ said Mr Troll. ‘We always have goat pie at Trollmas1.’

  Mrs Troll gave him a look. ‘And where for uggness sake are we going to find it? I’ve tried every shop in Biddlesden.’

  ‘We’ll find it,’ said Mr Troll confidently. ‘You can’t have Trollmas without goat pie—it wouldn’t be the same.’

  Mrs Troll put down her knife and fork. ‘Well, it can’t be the same, can it, Eggy? I mean, not like it is at home.’

  ‘Bogles to that! We’re going to have the best Trollmas ever, aren’t we?’ said Mr Troll with a wink at Ulrik.

  ‘Yes, Dad!’ said Ulrik. ‘Can we go roaring2?’

  ‘Of course we’ll go roaring,’ said Mr Troll. ‘We can start next door.’

  Mrs Troll frowned. ‘At the Priddles’? Is that a good idea? You know what peeples are like – they get frighted if you sneeze at them.’

  Mr Troll waved this aside. ‘I want us to have a proper Trollmas,’ he said. ‘Goat pie, presents and lots of roaring. We’re not going to change things just because we’re not at home.’

  ‘You sound just like Grumpa,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘That reminds me, Ulrik, have you written your thank-you letter?’

  ‘Yes, I wrote a whole page,’ answered Ulrik proudly. ‘I wonder if he will come for Trollmas.’

  Ulrik’s parents stared at him open-mouthed. ‘Grumpa?’ said Mrs Troll. ‘Come here?’

  ‘Yes, we always see him at Trollmas,’ said Ulrik. ‘I asked if he was coming.’

  Mr Troll groaned and hid his face in his hands.

  ‘Ulrik, hairling, try to remember,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘What exactly did you write in your letter?’

  Ulrik tried hard to think. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong but judging from his parents’ faces, it was something pretty bad. ‘I just said something like: “Are you coming for Trollmas?”’

  Mr Troll’s head thumped on the table.

  ‘Maybe he won’t come,’ said Mrs Troll hopefully.

  ‘Why?’ said Ulrik. ‘Why can’t he come? He always comes for Trollmas.’

  ‘But that was at home, hairling!’ explained Mrs Troll. ‘At home we lived in our stinksome cave. Things are different here. Grumpa wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’ persisted Ulrik.

  Mr Troll raised his head. ‘Grumpa’s old. You know what he’s like, Ulrik. He believes in the old trollish ways. He could never get used to living with peeples.’

  ‘Besides,’ said Mrs Troll, ‘he’d get a bit of a shock.’

  ‘Why?’ said Mr Troll.

  Mrs Troll looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, he might have got a bit muddled. There were a few things I put in my letters …’

  Mr Troll frowned. ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Just normal things. That we live in a cave. That the neighbours are trolls. I might have mentioned we go hunting in the forest every day.’

  ‘The forest?’ Mr Troll roared. ‘There is no blunking forest!’

  ‘You’ve been telling Grumpa fibwoppers!’ said Ulrik, shocked.

  ‘Only tiddly ones,’ said Mrs Troll.

  ‘They sound hulking big ones to me!’ observed Mr Troll. ‘Why for uggness�
� sake didn’t you tell him the truth?’

  Mrs Troll rubbed her snout. ‘I don’t know – it just seemed easier! From his letters he obviously thinks Mountain View is in the mountains and all our neighbours must be trolls. I didn’t want to upset him. Not after the way we had to leave …’

  Ulrik shot an anxious glance at his dad. The reason they left home was a forbidden subject. His dad had been butted off a bridge by a charging billy goat. It was because of the bridge trouble that they couldn’t go home. Dad said all the other trolls would be laughing behind their backs.

  For a moment no one spoke. They all sat round the table staring at the cold fish’s fingers and thinking what a shock Grumpa would get if he ever came to visit. Suddenly Mr Troll sprang to his feet. ‘The letter!’ he shouted. ‘Ulrik, what did you do with it?’

  ‘I put it in the letter-hole,’ replied Ulrik.

  ‘When? When was this?’

  ‘This morning on the way to school.’

  ‘Then maybe it’s still there!’ said Mr Troll. ‘We could get it back before it goes to Grumpa!’

  ‘Yes!’ Mrs Troll had leapt to her feet too. If the letter didn’t reach Grumpa he wouldn’t get Ulrik’s invitation and he wouldn’t come for Trollmas. They were saved!

  ‘Come on, Ulrik!’ said Mr Troll, grabbing his son by the arm. ‘Show me!’

  A Tight Fit

  The red postbox was on the corner of the road in front of the old church. Ulrik peered through the dark slot that looked like a yawning mouth.

  ‘Can you see it?’ asked Mr Troll.

  ‘I can see some letters,’ said Ulrik. ‘There’s hundreds of them.’

  ‘But can you see yours?’

  ‘I don’t know. They all look the same!’

  ‘Here! Let me look!’ said Mr Troll, impatiently.

  Ulrik moved aside to let his dad peer through the hole. He watched as he squeezed his hand through the narrow gap and tried to wriggle the rest of his arm through. It looked very odd, as if the letter-hole was trying to eat him a bit at a time.

  ‘What if someone comes, Dad?’ worried Ulrik. He wasn’t sure you were allowed to fish around in letter-holes.

  ‘Shh!’ said Mr Troll. ‘I’ve almost reached one … Got it!’

  ‘Is it mine?’

  ‘Wait a minute – I can’t see it yet.’

  Mr Troll tried to extract his hand. It had been a tight fit forcing his brawny arm through the hole, but getting it out proved harder still. He pulled and tugged. He faced one way and then the other. He wedged both feet against the bottom of the postbox and heaved as if it was a tug of war.

  ‘GNNNNHH!’

  ‘What’s the matter, Dad?’ asked Ulrik.

  ‘What does it look like?’ roared Mr Troll. ‘I’m STUCK!’

  Ulrik took hold of his dad’s free hand to try and pull him free. They were so busy heaving and tugging that they didn’t notice a red post van turn the corner and draw up beside them. The postman climbed out. He approached rather nervously when he saw the two trolls – the small one and the big ugly one who seemed to be trying to climb inside the postbox. He left his keys in the ignition in case he needed to drive off quickly.

  ‘I don’t want to interrupt but I need to get in there,’ he said.

  ‘You won’t do it,’ Mr Troll replied. ‘The hole’s too small.’

  ‘No.’ The postman held up a bunch of keys and shook them. ‘I mean I need to unlock it. You’ll have to move.’

  ‘How can I?’ said Mr Troll. ‘My arm’s stuck!’

  ‘We were trying to get a letter,’ explained Ulrik.

  ‘Were you?’ said the postman, feeling a little less nervous now. ‘It’s against the law, you know, stealing letters.’

  Ulrik looked alarmed. ‘Oh no, we weren’t stealing,’ he said. ‘It’s my letter. I posted it but now I want it back or else my Grumpa will come for Trollmas and he thinks there are goats in the forest.’ This came out in one breath and a bit muddled so that when the postman replied, ‘I see,’ it was plain from the look on his face that he didn’t.

  ‘Move to one side, then,’ said the postman. Mr Troll shuffled out of the way as best he could with one arm jammed in the postbox. Ulrik squatted down to watch as the postman unlocked a door and began to scoop the letters and parcels into his sack.

  ‘All right,’ he said, seeing Ulrik’s anxious face. ‘I shouldn’t ask this, but which one is yours?’

  Ulrik gazed at the sack full to the brim with letters. ‘I don’t know. It had a stamp on it – a lady in a funny hat.’

  ‘That’ll be the Queen,’ smiled the postman. ‘She’s on all the stamps.’

  ‘Hurry up!’ moaned Mr Troll. ‘My arm’s going to drop off!’

  ‘Anything else?’ the postman asked Ulrik. ‘When did you post it?’

  ‘This morning,’ replied Ulrik.

  ‘Oh well, I’m afraid you’re too late then. It’ll have gone in the first post!’

  ‘Gone?’ repeated Ulrik.

  ‘GONE?’ cried Mr Troll in despair.

  ‘That’s right. It’ll be at the sorting office by now.’

  The postman tightened the neck of his sack and slammed the door of the postbox shut.

  ‘ARGHHHHHH!’ roared Mr Troll, falling backwards.

  ‘Look, Dad,’ said Ulrik. ‘Your arm’s come unstuck!’

  For the next week the Trolls checked the post every day. They clung to the slim hope that Ulrik’s letter might not have reached Troll Mountain. But on the following Saturday, a tatty, dog-eared envelope tumbled through the letter box.

  ‘It’s from Grumpa!’ cried Ulrik, hurrying in to show his mum and dad. He tore it open and read out the few words scrawled on the grubby piece of paper.

  Dear Ulrik,

  Thanks for inviting me for Trollmas. Will arrive Sunday.

  Yours roaringly,

  Grumpa

  Mrs Troll closed her eyes. Mr Troll thumped his fist on the table, making the bowls and plates jump.

  ‘When’s Sunday?’ asked Ulrik.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Mrs Troll. ‘Surely he can’t mean tomorrow?’

  Mr Troll slumped back in his chair. ‘We’re done for,’ he groaned. ‘We’re up the creek without a puddle.’

  ‘I’m glad Grumpa’s coming,’ said Ulrik. ‘I miss him.’

  ‘But what are we going to do?’ asked Mrs Troll. ‘What about the forest and the goats he’ll be expecting?’

  ‘We’ll just have to keep him indoors,’ said Mr Troll.

  ‘For the whole of Trollmas? And anyway where’s he going to sleep – in our room?’

  ‘Not on your bogles!’ said Mr Troll flatly. ‘He snores like a warthog!’

  ‘Then he’ll have to go in Ulrik’s room,’ said Mrs Troll.

  ‘Where will I sleep?’ asked Ulrik.

  ‘In with us, my ugglesome,’ replied Mrs Troll.

  Ulrik didn’t mind that for a few days. It would be just like being home in their old cave where they all huddled together for warmth.

  Mrs Troll glanced around the room. There was so much to do and so little time before Grumpa arrived. She would have to go through the house, dirtying the place from top to bottom. Grumpa would be expecting a dark, draughty cave with cobwebs and mouldy leaves. Recently she’d noticed the house had started to lose its smell. The TV would have to be packed away out of sight, so would Ulrik’s bed (Grumpa would expect to sleep on the floor in the dirt).

  ‘Ulrik,’ she said, ‘see if you can find some bugs and spiders for your room.’

  ‘OK, Mum.’

  ‘And Eggy, this house hardly smells. We’ll need some fresh cow-patties.’

  ‘What about next door?’ said Mr Troll.

  ‘You won’t find any there!’

  ‘No!’ said Mr Troll. ‘I mean, what about the Priddles? You told Grumpa we live next door to a nice family of trolls. What’s he going to say when he finds out the neighbours are peeples?’

  Mrs Troll put a hand to her mouth. ‘Good goblins! I’d
forgotten that.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll like them,’ said Ulrik. ‘I like peeples. They can’t help being ugly.’

  Mr Troll shook his head. ‘Grumpa will go tromping blunkers! You know how he feels about peeples!’

  ‘Then we’ll have to make sure he never sees them,’ said Mrs Troll.

  Mr Troll rolled his eyes. ‘And how the bogles are we going to do that?’

  At Number 8 the Priddle family were also sitting down to breakfast. Mrs Priddle poured some muesli into a bowl while her plump, freckled son, Warren, spread a mound of peanut butter on his third slice of toast. Mr Priddle opened his newspaper, hoping for a few minutes to read it in peace.

  ‘Roger!’ said his wife. ‘When are we going to talk about Christmas?’

  ‘Mmm,’ mumbled Mr Priddle.

  ‘Are you listening to me?’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘You know the Snorleys are coming?’

  ‘Mmm,’ repeated Mr Priddle. He lowered his newspaper slowly. ‘The Snorleys? Why on earth did you ask them?’

  ‘Mum!’ protested Warren.

  ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, Warren,’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘Of course I invited the Snorleys. They had us last year.’

  ‘Yes, and it was a disaster. I thought I was going to die of boredom!’ said Mr Priddle.

  ‘Don’t exaggerate,’ said Mrs Priddle, reaching for her cup of tea.

  ‘I’m not exaggerating. Brian Snorley showed us his photos. For two hours!’

  ‘Well, it’s nice he’s got a hobby. I wish you had one.’

  ‘Jackie – they were photos of train stations!’

  ‘All right, I admit the Snorleys may not be very exciting but it’s our turn to have them.’

  Warren swallowed his toast. ‘Well, I’m not coming,’ he announced. ‘If we’ve got to see the Snorleys, I’m not coming.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Warren,’ snapped his mother. ‘It’s at our house – how can you not come?’

  ‘I’ll stay in my room,’ scowled Warren.

  ‘It’s Christmas Day. I expect you to behave nicely and play with Alice.’

  ‘Alice Snorley?’ snorted Warren. ‘She’s weird. She only eats vegetables.’